


Silk

by Dedicate Kiwicrocus (cranky__crocus)



Series: SMACKDOWN '11 Round Two - Team Discipline [2]
Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/F, Goldenlake, smackdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-21
Updated: 2011-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-19 16:08:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranky__crocus/pseuds/Dedicate%20Kiwicrocus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the touch of silk to Lark’s fingers, her hips jerked beneath Rosethorn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silk

**Author's Note:**

> Just realised the first five weren't ACTUALLY written for SMACKDOWN, but were written as part of the same set of prompts so I'm including them.

            “Rosethorn, this is your final chance to stop—”

            “If something has given you the impression I want to stop, _you’ve got entirely the wrong impression_ ,” Rosethorn gasped as she rubbed against Lark, eyes closed but aware of the sunlight streaming in through the open hatch door and into the dusty attic.

            Lark continued as if there had been no interruption, “—because I don’t know what will happen and when silk is involved, I _can’t stop_.”

            “But you seem able to delay—a lot,” the other complained, pressing their lips together and nibbling at her companion’s bottom lip. “I’d like you to stop doing _that_ and get to the point that you can’t stop doing _this._ ” She slid herself from Lark’s knee down her thigh and straddled the woman’s hips as they reclined on the blanket over the attic floor.

            Lark sighed, both exasperated and amused. She grasped Rosethorn’s hand and entwined their fingers, but the younger woman had other plans; she brought their connected hands to the basket beside them and retrieved two silken scarves. Even Rosethorn could appreciate the feel of silk between her fingers, despite it being outside her range of powers—what felt good felt _good_ , magic or no.

            At the touch of silk to Lark’s fingers, her hips jerked beneath Rosethorn.

            Rosethorn grinned to see the indication of what was to come. If the look of arousal on Lark’s face—eyes closed, features loose, lips parted, golden skin glowing in sunlight—was any indication, this was going to be one of their best break periods yet. It had better be, too: this was Lark’s way of getting Rosethorn to actually _take_ her rest period, away from Seed Moon weeding.

            “Tie it ‘round my eyes,” Lark commanded, her voice deep and gravelly compared to her ordinary lilt. Rosethorn obeyed, taking one of the silk scarves and tying it tightly behind Lark’s head, careful to avoid her curls and double-checking to be sure it covered her eyes entirely. Lark inhaled sharply and rasped, “Can you handle yours?”

            Rosethorn merely huffed in response as she hastily tied the other scarf behind her head. As an added surprise for Lark, she grasped two ends of their scarves together and tied a knot there. Rosethorn stroked the material absent-mindedly and felt Lark’s hips undulate beneath her in response.

            “Mmm, I can—I can feel that…” Lark murmured, slow and luxurious as she moved her hips beneath Rosethorn. “You tied us, didn’t you? You did.”

            Since Lark had answered her own question, Rosethorn only smiled and kissed the silk above Lark’s eyes, still stroking the soft material between her fingers. When Rosethorn’s lips reached Lark’s, the woman shuddered against her.

            “My senses…”

            “Your senses are silk.” Rosethorn traced circles in the silk with her fingers as she outlined Lark’s lips with her tongue; the woman moaned and arched. Rosethorn hissed at the feel of breasts brushing hers. Her grin went wicked as she kissed down Lark’s prominent jawbone and lengthy dancer’s neck, dipping her tongue into the pulse point rapidly beating with Lark’s heart. “This must make working with silk hard.”

            She felt Lark’s fingers snake through her hair and tug gently; one finger flicked Rosethorn’s ear. “You know it’s just the spell and _you_ that does this to me.”

            “More power to me”—Rosethorn licked the delicious line from Lark’s navel back up to the bony valley between her breasts—“and to silk.”

            Lark moaned and fell back against the floor, unable to continue holding herself and Rosethorn up on one elbow. Her moan intensified as she felt the silk sheet sliding between her and the soft pad underneath. She attempted to swallow the sounds of her pleasure but Rosethorn pinched her side.

            “If I can’t see you, I want to hear you. Don’t rob me of that.”

            “Yes Rosie,” Lark answered breathily; Rosethorn cherished the sound of the heated whisper. She took one pert nipple between her lips and prodded it with her tongue, circling and swiping at it in turn. Lark jerked beneath her, bony hip bones and slender thighs pressing up against Rosethorn’s stomach and groin. Rosethorn smiled around Lark’s nipple.

            “Rosie I _can’t_ —it’s, it’s too much: stop toying with me!” Lark gasped, close to a growl, and threw her arm over Rosethorn, flipping the woman beneath her. She sought Rosethorn’s face with one hand, unable to get her bearings without touch.

            Lark grasped Rosethorn’s jaws lightly, caressing with her thumbs and pressing her nose against the woman’s cheek. “My turn.”

            Rosethorn inhaled as she felt Lark’s finger stepping down her stomach, inch by agonising inch. They halted at the line of Rosethorn’s abdomen. The free end of Rosie’s scarf snaked over her shoulder and draped there, twitching over her nipple in swipes. Lark’s hot mouth took over the other, tongue slashing. Her fingers dragged down slower than ever to curl and twist in the coarse hair between Rosethorn’s legs.

            The silk blanket rose in that area as well, sliding across both of Rosethorn’s thighs and up against Lark’s hand. The material brushed Rosethorn’s folds—soft and smooth and cool—and she cried out, eyes closed and fingers grasping Lark’s hair.

            Lark nipped at Rosethorn’s breast and moaned, her own hips circling in the air; she could feel the silk at Rosethorn’s nipples and nether lips, the peaked points and slickness. She felt Rosethorn’s hand connect with her bottom—gentle, probing, gathering coordinates—and squeeze, working down and between her legs. Rosethorn entered her in one swift movement.

            “Rosie—!” Lark gasped, clenching her legs around the hand automatically. She pushed down against it, encouraging Rosethorn to pump and curl. Lark dipped her own fingers in amongst the silk, circling Rosethorn’s pearl until she cried out. The fingers slipped within Rosie; Lark continued to thumb the pearl.

            She fumbled for a moment, seeking Rosethorn’s blind face with her own, but at last felt it with her nose and planted messy kisses to her lover’s cheeks and lips. Lark felt their laboured breaths mingle with the material surrounding their eyes.

            Lark felt it all from silk’s perspective. She could hear the scarves singing to one another from their joint knot, harmonising their great pleasure at their involvement in a moment so special to a presence they appreciated—when silk loved, it loved _hard_ , not unlike Lark herself. The silk scarves greeted each other and the moment like old friends, wrapping every sensation in further smooth softness—rose-petal softness.

            The song of the silk wafted in her nose with Rosethorn’s heady  scent, caressed her skin with enhanced sense of touch to greet Rosethorn’s pumping fingers and hungry mouth, rang in her ears with the breathless pants and empowered moans that erupted from both of them…

            Exploded on her tongue when, at Rosethorn’s slackening, she brought her fingers to her lips and could have sworn to her old sacred goddess Onini-of-the-flowers that she tasted her favourite potent spices from Yanjing…

            Soothed her sight, for though she could not see past the silk, she felt she could see _with_ it, to the extent that silk could _see_ : the shadow of Rosethorn’s spent body luxuriating on a silken sheet; the sunlight drying the sweat from Rosethorn’s radiantly pale skin; the fluttering of Rosethorn’s auburn-tinted lashes behind her own blindfold…

            For all that she could not see, silk gave her the sight of perspective. She breathed deeply and found that silk had more to give.

            Lark felt memories, long and old and numerous, of journeys down dusty roads—emigration and immigration in turn, forever sought and admired but never in its first form; she felt earth beneath six legs and white mulberry leaves heavy within her; she recalled the feel of weaving her own inner essence into something with the potential for beauty when woven together correctly. The reality of silk: the beautiful unity of animal, plant, and cloth; transported and tricky; not vain but picky; forever searching the place it was most understood, most appreciated, most able to find respect for its ugly past as much as its refined resplendence.

            More to give, silk reminded her in soothing sing-song voices, echoing and embracing. More to give, another sense: _love_.

            Lark felt tears against her blindfold and smiled, at last reaching back to untie the material; it slithered away without her assistance, the silk acknowledging the moment as one for the look of lovers. Rosethorn’s scarf slid off as well. The two scarves pooled near the basket, intertwined and roped from free tips to the knot at the other end.

            Lark smiled tenderly to see it. They were not unlike lovers themselves; perhaps their memories dove deep enough to recall the animal yearning to mate, to aggregate. She shivered as she recalled that yes, yes they did. She barely managed to pull herself into a seated position, legs crossed, to watch Rosethorn emerge from her paradise of pleasure.

            Rosethorn roused slowly; she was always most vulnerable at these times. She rubbed the back of one hand over her eyes and inhaled deeply. One eye peeked open slowly and set on her companion.

            “The silk…?” she inquired in a husky tone. She swallowed and smiled, small but sure.

            “The silk helped,” Lark assured. Her mind wandered some as she spoke. “A whole new level. A few times with Yazmin and noble ladies were spent on silk and my head was especially dizzy, but nothing this intentional or involved…” She gazed at her hands to note her fingertips were still shaking; she could feel the very air still grazing her. “That’s final, though: the silk helped.”

            Rosethorn quirked a grin and moved to rest her head upon Lark’s lap; Lark reflexively lifted her hand to finger through the woman’s cooling hair. Rosethorn uttered a contented sound and smiled as softly and freely as she ever would.

            “It was that good. _You_ were that good.” Lark branded Rosethorn’s forehead with a kiss of smiling lips and winked. “Perhaps next time we’ll use cotton.”

            Rosethorn laughed. “We’d blow up Discipline.”

            “Perhaps for Wild Night late-night festivities, when the Temple is most protected from magical leaking of…that sort?”

            Their exchanged grins grew wicked. Rosethorn blew on the still-glistening hair between Lark’s legs and gazed up, the look sated yet sparked again.

            “Settled: cotton for Wild Night,” Rosethorn agreed. She kissed Lark’s thigh and linked their fingers together. “And _that’s_ final.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! (:


End file.
